Plot Devices
by NattheBatt
Summary: She is just a background character for the longest time. Always there, but never taking up any of the lines of your dialogues. She is always a background character. Until she isn't. Oddly enough, she turns out to be the perfect foil to your role as the protagonist.


You don't really understand this.

You thought you would, but you were wrong.

God, how you were wrong.

Your stories were never supposed to cross in such a way- not that that stopped it from happening- and you'll be damned if it didn't ruin absolutely fucking everything. Okay, maybe not everything, but close enough.

She is just a background character for the longest time. Always there, but never taking up any of the lines of your dialogues. She is always a background character.

Until she isn't.

Oddly enough, she turns out to be the perfect foil to your role as the protagonist. You rack your brain trying to think of a movie where the foil and the main character get along so well... But you can't, because that's not how it's supposed to go. That's not how it's supposed to be.

And that is the first tip off that maybe, just maybe, your story is being written by an inexperienced author.

Oh well. It's not like you can do anything about it.

Then she's not just a role in your book. She's an actual character, with real emotions (which she buries beneath almost impenetrable stone. Almost), real thoughts (which you love hearing because they are surprisingly interesting for such a young woman), and even a real birthday (which you lucked out on, and managed to officially meet her before her fifteenth passed). And if an inexperienced writer, is in fact, writing your story, then they fucking outdid themselves with her character. In your humble opinion.

Then she gets a plaything. A plaything that she fucks around with every other weekend. You tell yourself you're not jealous. And you mean it. You really aren't jealous, because she still texts you virtually non-stop, and you find that extremely flattering for some reason. (Especially so when you find out her plaything got jealous that she was texting you so much.) You're not even jealous when she comes home smelling of cigarette smoke and perfume, relaying the way that someone else's breasts feel in her palms. You're not jealous because you're the first person she tells. The first person she comes to. And you find this extremely flattering too.

You know it's your job as the protagonist to influence her, to make her less cynical, to make her wear less dark clothing, to make her less sarcastic... But it's always been easier to make black out of grey than white out of grey, and maybe, just maybe she's more influential than you care to admit at times. But you can tell that she's influencing you based on the look your classmate just gave you for telling him to fuck off.

And maybe she's onto something with the whole "I'm a bitch" routine, because he does leave you alone for the rest of the class period.

Then the lines are blurring, and you're not exactly sure where your story is supposed to go anymore. Foils are not meant to be the protagonist's best friend, but that doesn't stop her. Not much does when she puts her mind to it. Although, she never really put her mind to being your best friend, it was kind of vise versa actually. She was content at keeping you at arm's length, but that was too far for you.

You still don't know why.

As self-depreciating as she is, she makes a fucking great best friend.

Yes, she is guarded and does not trust easily. But you manage to worm your way into her circle of trust, and you do not plan on ruining that.

Yes, she makes things out of nothing- like getting in the car with people is apparently trusting them with your life- but it opens your eyes to new things, so you're okay with it. (You try to drive better with her in the car, because you don't want her to be scared that you're going to get you and her killed.)

Yes, she has a really bad self-esteem thing going, but you don't know why, so you kind of unconsciously make it your goal to correct that issue.

But. She is also honest- sometimes to the point where you wish she would lie every once in awhile- and loyal, and even kind. (Not that she will ever admit it.)

And this is the first tip off that maybe, just maybe, she's supposed to be your sidekick instead of your foil.

Because she always has your back, and you trust her just as much as she trusts you. And she lets you in, and she asks you to stay on the phone with her so that she won't be alone when she wakes up from her nightmares, and fuck it if that's not one of the cutest things you've ever heard of.

Then she kisses you, and you have to stop and make sure that you're just fucking around, because sexuality was never an issue your writer cared to bring up, and now seems like an awful time to. She dismisses the gravity of the situation with her usual attitude, and it helps a little bit. But that doesn't change the fact that she's a girl. No matter how badass, and awesome, and funny, and just... Everything she is. She's still a SHE, and that's an issue for you. You know that she knows that you're not as... "Chill" with this as she is, and maybe that's why she kisses you instead of letting you talk. But you're human, and she's a good kisser, so you let her. Even with a sinking feeling pooling in your stomach.

And try as you might, you can't really find a flaw in the writing. Sidekicks become romantic interests all the time.

It's almost funny, because of how overdone that trope is.

Almost.

But it's not funny to you, not one bit, because you're still confused as shit.

And that is the first tip off that maybe, just maybe, your story is being written by a fucking genius.

And maybe, just maybe, your story isn't supposed to go as smoothly as you originally anticipated.

Maybe, just maybe, your story is supposed to make the audience cry.

God knows you do.

Then you realize that you're running out of time before you graduate. And you're in far too deep. For all the anti-love bullshit she talks, she falls for you, hard. And you sort of feel bad about that, like, maybe it's partially your fault. And she gives you an out, multiple times. But your author has written you with the flaw of not speaking up for yourself as much as you'd like to, so you stay silent and kiss her instead. And it's funny, because you can almost taste the poison of not saying "let's stop" on her lips, but... She's still a good kisser, and you're still just human, so you keep going instead.

And that is the first tip off that maybe, just maybe, things are not going to end well for you.

Or for her.

You don't really understand what's happening to you. If you didn't know any better, you'd swear she actually did poison you, because it feels like your dying.

You check your phone for- what has to be- the fifth time in the last two minutes, already knowing that there won't be any texts from her.

Knowing that there haven't been any new texts from her for months.

And maybe that's why, when you're feeling pretty masochistic, you read through the old ones.

And maybe, when you actually let yourself think about her- not that it's often that you aren't already- that's why you have to pull your car over and cry, because otherwise it feels as if you'll cave in on yourself, and you've been doing that enough lately.

And maybe, you're also wondering if she's handling the self-inflicted- on your part at least since you're the one who left without a goodbye- separation any better, or maybe- you kind of hope- that she's feeling the same thing you are.

Maybe, just maybe, she's missing you, just as much as you're missing her.

You want to text her to ask.

But you still don't speak up as often as you should, so you don't. Instead, you turn up the stereo because it's a song that she showed you, and continue to cry.

And that is the first tip off that maybe, just maybe, your life is a shitty romance novel, and that kind of really pisses you off.

You know it'd piss her off too...

And that just makes your cry even harder.

Then you're awkwardly bumping into her at football games. It was never awkward between you two. You don't know how to handle a situation you've never been in before. So you aim to just pretend that nothing is wrong, and she seems to have the same idea, because albeit being a few degrees cooler than normal, she acts the same towards you. Both of your voices strain, and you can feel the pauses in the conversation go taught with a tension the both of you are trying to ignore, but you refuse to let it rule the conversation.

But a conversation takes two.

And it's like she wants to make you suffer, so she doesn't offer up much in part of talking.

It's then that you're reminded of her trust issues, and you remember that you're not exactly in a position to warrant a warm attitude from her, nor are you in a position to bitch.

She hasn't hit you.

Yet.

She looks like she wants to.

Or like she wants to cry.

You don't know how to handle either of these, so you repeat history, and you walk away and try not to look back.

Try not to.

You text her. She texts you back.

And that is the first tip off that maybe, just maybe, you are going to get your best friend back.

You still want to kiss her, and that bothers you. A lot. Because you're not gay. You're not. That's the whole reason any of this happened in the first place. She wanted something that you couldn't give her. So... You still wanting to kiss her is kind of fucking with your head. And your heart if you're honest with yourself- which you are more often now, because you've grown in the past year- which is stupid because she's just your best friend, and nothing more.

Unless of course, you want to point out the fact that she's still in love with you.

Which you find extremely flattering in a way.

And that is the first tip off that maybe, just maybe, she really did poison you.

Not like an actual poison though, but more like a drug.

Because drugs cause addictions, and addictions come with cravings.

It's been two years since you've taken a hit.

Then she gets a girlfriend. And you tell yourself you're not jealous. And you mean it. You're not. Not even when she tells you how much she loves her. Not even when she tells you the sweet nothings her new lover has told her. Not even when she tells you what she tastes like between her legs.

You're not jealous because you can still see her love for you in her eyes. And you find that extremely flattering, if not a bit problematic.

But it's there.

Just for you.

And you wonder how long someone can stay sober.

And that is the first tip off that maybe, just maybe, you're story is written to make people want to seize opportunities while they are still there.

And that is the first tip off that maybe, just maybe, you missed something extremely vital to your happy ending.

And now- you don't know what good it would do, because a) you're still not gay, b) she's still a girl, and c) you both still have your character flaws- you hope that your author will write a sequel.

**A/N: This is a bedtime story that I wrote for a friend a few months ago, and I wanted to post something to tell the people who are waiting for updates on my other stories that I do in fact plan on doing so. I just get really depressed sometimes, and along with high school still taking up a good portion of my time, time just flies by and I'm standing there like, "How have five months just passed?" **

**Anyway, here's this thing. I hope you liked it. (FunFact: This is actually the first story I wrote from this point of view. I did it as an exercise.) **

**Happy holidays guys, and I hope you have a happy New Year's! *sounds of poppers going off and little bits of streamers falling lackluster-ly to the ground***


End file.
